God Stones: Books 1 - 3

by Otto Schafer

  Lenny raised an eyebrow and for an uncomfortably long moment just looked at him. Then in a deadpan voice he said, “You know we aren’t supposed to talk about the ‘chores’ we do at home. You know the rules.”

  Garrett blinked in disbelief. He wasn’t the only one! “Yeah, but I just didn’t know if… if anyone else had to do this stuff or if—”

  “Or if it was what? Only you? Well, it isn’t. It started when I came to Petersburg. Ever since I was adopted, there has been a training regimen, and I have to follow very specific rules. As I got older, I asked, and they told me all kids in Petersburg train and all have the same rules. They said I could never talk about it… ever.”

  That’s something, Garrett thought. Lenny was told only kids in Petersburg while his mom told him all kids. “So, you think there are others? You think it is all the kids in town?”

  “I guess. I mean, I wondered, sure – thought maybe I had been adopted by some crazy foster parents, but now… Listen, how in the hell should I know? I sure as shit ain’t going to go around asking. The consequences for disobeying and breaking the rules are harsh.” Lenny glanced back, lowering his voice even more. “Listen, we shouldn’t be talking about this at all and certainly not here.”

  Garrett nodded. “Okay, Lenny. But do you know why? Why we have to train?”

  “Shit, Garrett. Did you hear anything I just said? If you really want to talk about it, let’s not do it here. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, man, see you tomorrow.” For the first time, Garrett felt like Lenny might not be as worry-free as he thought. Ashamedly, he knew something about that made him feel better. Not that his friend wasn’t as carefree, but that he was more like him after all. Maybe Lenny just hid it better.

  Garrett cut through a neighbor’s backyard and was home. His mind raced. He wanted to ask more questions. He wanted answers, but that would have to wait. As he approached his back door, he knew this was only the beginning of his night. Now it was time to train. As exhausted as he felt, he took some solace in knowing that he wasn’t alone.

  8

  Money Pit

  Present day

  Oak Island, Nova Scotia

  By spring, Jerry was chomping at the bit to get to the bottom of the tunnel mystery. Anything the Moores required was provided without question. By late February, they were back preparing the site to dig. Breanne and her father had spent the winter researching every scrap of information they could find on Oak Island, Native Americans from the region, and even the Knights Templar, even though the connection was yet to be proven. Paul and Edward made equipment arrangements and upgraded mobile living arrangements with Jerry, ensuring they would have everything they needed, including a monster of a crane. Since frequent travel was necessary to properly prepare the site and Paul had been a pilot in the military, Jerry was able to acquire a helicopter for supply runs. Apparently, money really was no object for the mysterious stakeholder.

  By early March, the Moores were in the Money Pit, utilizing the cable crane with a clamshell bucket. By late March, they had already reached a depth of close to 125 feet. Unlike treasure seekers of the past, they didn’t have the same issue with water. Her dad assumed it was because the swamp was drained, cutting off the water from the last of the undiscovered flood tunnels.

  All Breanne knew for sure was no seeping sewage water was a good thing. It meant less muck and fewer bugs, and that was fine by her.

  They were nearing the last days of March. The Nova Scotia chill would soon be giving way to warmer temperatures, and the sporadic freezing rain would be nothing more than a bad memory. Those days made Breanne miss the warmth of Mexico and all it could have been. Today, though, was not one of those days. Today the sky was clear and blue, from what little she could see anyway. Today, like most days, Breanne found herself nearly 150 feet below the surface, deep inside a damp pit, her exposed skin clammy from the cool wet earth surrounding her. She wore dozens of small jet-black braids pulled back into a loose ponytail that stretched down the center of her back, ending near her waistline. The cuffs of her green Carhartts were crusted in semi-dry mud, as were her well-worn leather work boots. Even in the cool temperatures of March, she found her grey hoodie too warm in the noonday sun, opting instead to tie it snugly around her waist, there if she needed it. On her head, she wore her wide-brimmed papyrus hat, the chin strap loose and dangling below her neckline.

  Breanne’s father passed her the trench shovel. “Careful, Bre. Go easy… easy.”

  “I know, Dad, just give me a second,” she said, her tone that of a teenager pushing forty. She guided the shovel into the earth with surgical precision. The shovel, having not penetrated more than a few inches, made a soft but audible thunk, then halted abruptly. Breanne’s eyes widened expectantly. “Please don’t let it be another piece of leftover junk from past digs.”

  Her father locked eyes with her and allowed himself a rare moment of expressed hope. “Baby girl, years of working archeological sites have taught me hope can be a dangerous thing, more often than not ending in disappointment. But I don’t think that’s what this is. We’re too deep into the Money Pit for that now, and we’ve definitely moved outside the old dig radius.” Spinning on his heels, he pointed to an orange flag placed in the loose soil some feet behind them. “This is virgin material. I think… Yes, we’ve got something, Bre!”

  Breanne smiled at her father, allowing herself to fully appreciate his sense of joy and wonder. Noticing her expression, he went still, allowing a broad smile to stretch across his bewhiskered face, as if also sensing this was a moment to cherish, to hold on to, to stretch out for just those extra few heartbeats until the suspense was too much to bear. And when it was too much, they both knew it at the same moment. Grinning from ear to ear, they dropped to their knees in unison and began frantically brushing the dirt away, dragging their cupped hands across the earth, eager to reveal the mystery below.

  They had been so careful using the soil probes and shovels, but their diligence sweeping the pit floor with ground-penetrating radar had only continued to yield confusing images that made no sense.

  The crane, outfitted with a clamshell bucket, had cautiously skimmed the earth bit by painstaking bit, shallow scoop after shallow scoop. The progress had been slow, and at a depth of 150 feet, repeated hand probing in two-foot increments began to take its toll. Up until now, however, all they had pulled from the hole were chunks of debris from past digs, a constant reminder of history’s failures and lost hope.

  As Breanne frantically pulled her hands across the loose soil, her mind reeled at the implications. In a mere fraction of a second, the story her father had told her of Oak Island and all the events leading here, to this very moment, flashed through her mind like a near-death experience.

  A chunk of old wooden timber came into view beneath her hands.

  “This is it! We’ve found the tunnel, baby girl!” her father said. “Alright, it’s getting late, and we have put in a long day. Let’s probe the edges, flag them, and we will expose the entire structure at first light. We can breach the wooden structure first thing in the morning when we are fresh and can hopefully see this through.”

  Breanne looked grave.

  “What is it?”

  “Dad, should we really risk leaving this? I mean, I just keep thinking of that story of how the treasure hunters came back to find the pit flooded.”

  “Ah, yes, I understand your concern, Bre, but that’s precisely why I don’t want to continue.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “If we continue on, we need to get artificial lighting down here because we are losing the sun quick. That means working in the dark and probably well into the morning hours. Even then we don’t know how long we will be clearing stones once we breach the tunnel. What if we can’t finish? What if we pop the top, and we somehow trigger a trap? I just don’t want to risk it. This is a good point to stop. A safe point,” he said, removing his fedora and scratching his head.

 
She couldn’t argue with that – wouldn’t, not after Mexico. Shit, this was part of the reason she insisted to herself she needed to be here, to keep him from doing something risky. Yet her curiosity tugged her on. Who was she fooling? Who was really the fool? Maybe she should have gone on to school after all.

  “Besides, you look really tired.” Worry lines were etched deep across his forehead. “Your eyes, they seem sunken? And you look thin. Are you sleeping okay, baby girl?”

  “Of course,” she lied, punching his arm. “But thanks for telling me I look like crap!”

  “That’s not what I said.” He rubbed his arm, one corner of his mouth turning up.

  She knew her father was right, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Long days in the pit were grueling, and she always hit the sack consumed with fatigue. But fatigue didn’t equate to sleep… not for her. Only today was different. Despite her apparent sickly appearance – thanks for that, Dad – she was invigorated with a sheer excitement. Today marked the end of painstaking days working their way down to the wooden tunnel. No more worrying they may have missed it – they had finally found it. Still, she hated the thought of leaving without knowing. Damn his patience, and thank God for it.

  “It will be here waiting for us tomorrow, Bre,” he said with a consoling smile.

  Reluctantly she nodded. “I will call Paul and let him know we’re ready to come up.”

  With the promise of a new adventure tomorrow, it would be hours before sleep would find her.

  She would do her best to push it away as long as she could, but finally, when she slipped away into unconsciousness, she knew she wouldn’t be alone – she never was.

  9

  Pete

  Present day

  Petersburg, Illinois

  Across town, Pete walked with a sense of purpose, eager to get home with his mysterious find. As he shuffled down the sidewalk approaching the square, he noticed two figures coming towards him. When Pete recognized them, his pulse quickened.

  “What’s up, Fudd!” Jack called out.

  “Not much, just trying to get home. Been working at Eugene’s all day.”

  “What you got there?” Albert asked, pointing at the book.

  Shit, I should have hidden the book when I saw them coming. “Nothing, just some old book I found – probably trash,” he said nervously.

  Albert laughed. “Pwobabwee trawsh?” he mocked.

  “Let me see it.” Jack held out his hand.

  “It’s really fragile, Jack. I want to take it home and see if I can open it,” he said, not even considering his word choice.

  “Weawwy fwagile, is it, Pete?” Jack laughed. “Well, that doesn’t sound like ‘twash’ then, does it?”

  No matter how many times someone made fun of his speech, the embarrassment never lessened. Pete felt his face erupt in red heat. “I have to go, Jack. I’m rea—” He stopped himself, choosing different words. “It’s getting late, and I have to get home.”

  “So where did you say you found it, Pete, at Eugene’s? You said you were working there?” Jack asked accusingly.

  “Yeah… I mean, no… I mean, yeah. We were… I mean, had been… work—” Shit, new word. “At Eugene’s, I mean, but I just found it on the way home. I got to go, guys.” Pete moved to step around the boys.

  Jack lunged forward, snatching Pete by the arm, squeezing too tight, as an adult might snatch up a child who was misbehaving. “You’re acting ‘weiwd,’ Petey. Go on home and maybe tomorrow you can show me that book,” Jack said, pointing at the book clutched in Pete’s hand. “Maybe on your way, you think about this. Your mom’s been dating my dad for almost two years now. She ends up marrying my dad, and we’ll be brothers, Petey – can you imagine that? You and me, brothers? Well, imagine this, you little shit, what’s yours is mine. So, yeah, you run on home, and I’ll see you tomorrow, little bro!”

  Pete yanked his arm away and turned quickly to make his escape down the sidewalk. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath.

  The two boys remained for a few moments longer to laugh and shout after Pete. “What’s that, Pete? Did you say something? Kinda hard to understand you when you don’t speak so cweawy!”

  “Yeah, see you tomowwow, Petey.” Albert chortled, high fiving Jack.

  Pete shuffled across the apartment building’s parking lot and ascended the stairs to the entrance of the old brick building. Once inside, he climbed yet another set of stairs, making his way past the doors to apartments ten, eleven, and twelve – their paint chipped and faded – finally arriving at apartment thirteen. Jamming the key into the worn deadbolt, he cranked it to the left and threw his hip into the door.

  “Peter, you’re home. Let me guess, you were at the library again?” his mother asked.

  “Uh-uh,” Pete said, grabbing a cold grilled cheese off the kitchen counter and jamming half of it into his mouth. “At… Eugene’s… working… Garrett,” he said with effort as he struggled to manage the mouthful of cheesy goodness.

  “Okay, I think you said you were working at Eugene’s with Garrett?”

  “Yup, I got to go study.”

  “Okay, boy, wait just a minute. Now, I know you don’t study. So what are you up to?” she asked.

  She was right that he didn’t study. He didn’t need to. School wasn’t even a challenge for Pete. It just came easy.

  “Research, I mean. I have some research I want to do before bed.”

  “Now that I believe. What’s the topic tonight?”

  Pete thought about that for a moment. “History.” Then, grabbing another grilled cheese for the road, he turned to leave the kitchen. “Love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too. Hey, make sure you shower before bed, Peter,” she called after him.

  “I will, Mom.”

  Once in his room he carefully turned the book back and forth, searching his mind for a solution. Then he remembered reading somewhere that if the pH level in old paper fell below a certain number, it could only be preserved, not restored. Where had he read that? He also remembered that for less valuable documents, one could mist the paper, being careful not to get it too wet, which would result in smudging the ink. Well, that seemed risky since he couldn’t even open it without breaking it. Contemplating what to do, he came up with two options. He needed to get the paper moist without ruining it, or he needed to remove the binding. Freeing the pages would allow him to lay them out individually. The former was the scenario he preferred, as he wanted to at least try and keep it intact; after all, it could be quite valuable.

  He went to work, creating a humidity chamber from a garbage bag, his desk chair, a couple hangers, and the humidifier his mom had purchased for his asthma attacks. He was careful to leave the chamber open on one end to allow moisture to escape, ensuring he did not inadvertently create a wet environment; he wanted humidity, not moisture. With the humidifier placed on the floor, spout pointed up, the book placed on the seat of the chair, and the newly fashioned plastic tent over the chair, his design was complete.

  Pete checked the book’s progress after he showered, and then a few more times before getting ready to turn in for the night. Just before he hit the sack, he decided to give it a try and see if he could turn a page in the book. He remembered having seen curators use white gloves to handle fragile scrolls and documents. He didn’t have white gloves, but he had some old brown jersey gloves, so he donned those and slowly attempted to turn the first page.

  Pete grimaced as if in pain as he applied the slightest amount of pressure. The page slowly yielded, folding over without breaking. “Yes!” Pete exclaimed. Remembering his mother was in the next room, he added in a lowered voice, “Victory is mine.”

  Carefully placing the book on his desk, he examined the newly visible pages. The page on the left side was completely ruined. He could see only the remnants of writing in the form of an inky smudge. But the next page was covered with old-fashioned cursive handwriting, legible though difficult to read. Here and there, old
water stains blotted out bits of the text. Grabbing his notebook, he began transferring the text, putting x’s in the place of words he couldn’t make out.

  Now you know the story xxx xxx is to believe. When that young man, the Potawatomi boy, found me that warm day, July 10th of 1832, my life changed forever. Now xxx I xxx xxx xxx great danger and my urgent desire to pass this information on to someone I can trust. My conscience has been xxx much despair holding this deep secret. My xxx xxx heavy and must be unburdened before it is too late, which it may be already, as I am afraid I have hinted too often at the truth I so wish to speak.

  Oh xxx you xxx xxx xxx a good friend to me, but I must caution xxx xxx on the information I bestow upon xxx as I unburden my conscious from xxx secret I have held for so long. You must xxx xxx xxx the journey shall lead you. If xxx happens to me, you must decide whether you tell the world or if your heart can stand to hold this truth. I bring you this heavy load because I believe you will do the right thing. However, you must be cautioned of the peril you will face should you decide to make this a public affair.

  That was the end of the page. What the hell is this? thought Pete. Eighteen thirty-two? Native Americans? July tenth? Dammit, why do I know that date? He was sure he knew the date, but from where? Crap, that date is important. He couldn’t place it, but he was sure he knew it.

  Pete returned the book to the humidifying chamber and climbed into bed. He slept restlessly, pulling his blankets off, then on. Then off again. That date from the book and mention of the Potawatomi boy played out in his dreams. He could see 1832 written somewhere else… in another book? In a book he had read. The next morning, he woke with a start. He had had an epiphany, and it had come to him in his dreams.

  “I do know that date!” Pete said, jumping out of bed.